


stone by stone

by xxExtremeWaysxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muggle Culture, Muggle Life, Multi, Romance, Secrets, Sexual Tension, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Unbreakable Vow (Harry Potter), Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-19 22:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17610509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxExtremeWaysxx/pseuds/xxExtremeWaysxx
Summary: Hermione Granger has forsaken magic, abandoning the Wizarding World and all that she once cared for. When Draco Malfoy, currently serving a sentence in Azkaban, is propositioned by the Ministry to aid in her return, he decides to do anything to free himself and the person he loves from prison and embark on the impossible task of bringing Hermione back to the world of magic.





	1. Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy lived in a windowless tomb.

No, that wasn’t right.

He did not live. He existed.

Draco Malfoy existed in a windowless tomb.

The sun rose and the moon waned and time passed on without him.

The muggles had a saying. He’d heard it when vacationing with his parents in a villa in Bordeaux. The memory was a wisp of smoke in his mind, nothing but shadow now; it was one of the few joyful memories he had possessed. It had been the first to go when he arrived here.

An American tourist had said it. Something about a tree crashing in a forest. If one didn’t hear it, did it create a sound? At the time Draco had thought it was a load of rubbish: some marketed ancient proverb people framed and hung in their foyers to appear posh and sophisticated to guests.

Now, the words echoed through his thoughts.

He could feel the way his chest rose and fell. He could feel his breath, coming soft and shallow from his lips. But, he hadn’t seen another human since before and he could no longer remember the way sunlight felt on his skin or the color of his mother’s eyes or the taste of buttered toast.

If no one knew or cared for his life, did he truly exist?

A flash, swift and blinding, sparked from the shadows of his mind.

A pair of hazel eyes.

Eyes that held the secrets of a forest, gold light through green leaves and brown soil beneath  
broken twigs.

Eyes belonging to someone who was as much a part of him as the breath in his lungs and the chain biting into his wrists.

He swallowed the longing in his throat, blinking back the image.

No.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

The only gift he had left was this: his protection.

He could keep his mind silent. A gift from a professor with greasy hair and a hooked nose. Another wisp of a memory in a dark classroom with vials of potions and simmering cauldrons.

He could keep his mind silent. But, he needed to be sure. Just this once. Then he would rebuild.

Draco touched his fingers to the weeping stone walls of his cell and lightly tapped.  
Once, twice, three times. I am here and I remember.

He held his breath, waiting.

A tap, soft and sure. A whisper. I know, it said.

Draco bit back a cry. His fingers trailed down the barricade between them, bringing the dewy condensation to his cracked lips. He leaned his forehead against the rough rock, his mouth moving soundlessly, as he replicated the barrier in his mind.

Stone by stone, he rebuilt the wall. Slowly, painfully, he let the bark and the moss and the filtered sunlight slip away until there were only the shadows.

The door of his cell flung open in a frigid breeze. He stared at his bare feet, watching the icy veins crack and weave toward him, surrounding him a numb embrace. He shut his eyes, testing the strength of his wall.

Dark robes creeped closer, the breath in his lungs solidifying, the hair in his nostrils freezing to stillness.

As he was pulled into unconsciousness, amongst the sound of crashing waves and echoing cries, he could hear a light tap.

One, two, three.

And then darkness.

* * *

He blinked into awareness. Hollowed, empty and alone.

Gingerly, he rose from the floor, his bones creaking and cracking in protest.  
He pulled air into his lungs, flexing his fingers.

Then, he began his routine: jump, push, crunch. His mind quivered with his muscles. Jump, push, crunch. Sweat dripped from his brow. Repeat.

He had to be careful not to expel more calories than he had consumed. His heart thundered in his chest, pushing the blood through his veins. Warmth spreading to his fingertips and toes. Jump, push, crunch.

A jingle of keys and suddenly, light filled the room. Draco blinked, eyes adjusting to the intrusion. Gods, not again. Not so soon.

“Draco Malfoy,” a voice drawled.

Draco nodded, unable to speak.

“Come with me,” the voice said. A man’s voice.

A hand gripped his arm, pulling him to his feet. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

Draco shuffled to his feet, as the chains fell from his wrists and ankles. Was this it? Was he about to receive his final Kiss? A wave of fear rushed through him, he swayed on his feet.

The man kept a firm grip on his arm. He carried a torch and from its glow Draco saw the lines of his face: he was a middle-aged man, his skin pock-marked, a mustache grazing his upper lip. From his neck hung a thick, silver chain, glinting in the firelight. The chain held two small keys.

“Don’t get any ideas,” the man growled, his dark eyes following Draco’s gaze. “I’m allowing you to walk without chains mostly ‘cause I don’t want the hassle, but if you try to run, you’ll get an unpleasant surprise.” His hand grazed the pocket of his shirt where his wand sat tucked snug to his chest.

“Nod your head if you understand.”

Draco dipped his chin.

“Good, now follow me.”

The torch light moved out of the cell.

He cast a glance to the cell door beside his, his fingers twitched at his side. He reached toward the door, fingers grazing the splintered wood.

“Now, boy!” The guard yanked him from the door. Draco stumbled, looking back at the closed door, his heart lurching as he followed the stranger.

Blood rushed to Draco’s head, his ears roared, drowning the rumble of the waves crashing upon the island beyond the prison walls.

Draco opened his mouth. “I-“ The word clawed at his throat.

He tried again.

“I- “ Demand to know where you are taking me.

“Save your breath, boy. You’re going to need it,” the man jeered.

Draco braced himself, his mind scrambling for some semblance of a plan. Had he not dreamt of this opportunity during the countless sleepless nights he had spent in this crypt? The problem was he never believed it would be a possibility.

His feet followed the torch’s light, as they passed door after door. Wailing followed them as they made their slow descent along the curving passageway of the prison. Draco counted each step he took, the steps between him and the closed prison cell behind him, his thoughts racing.

The man halted, Draco’s feet tripped to a stop. He watched as the guard took the silver chain and placed one of the keys into the lock of an unmarkable door, mumbling words beneath his breath. Wandless magic. The door clicked open and the man, once again, grabbed Draco’s bicep.

Draco took a breath. 1,248 steps. He closed his eyes.

“Ready?” A sneer, revealing rotting teeth.

The door swung open and Draco was blinded. Good thing he didn’t need light. He rammed his elbow into the guard’s gut, slamming his fist into the man’s nose. A spurt of hot blood painted his hand. The guard groaned, falling to the floor. Draco grabbed for the man’s wand.

“Expelliarmus!” A voice roared. The wand flew from Draco’s grip.

Draco’s hands were yanked in front of him and he winced as a set of steel chains clicked into place against his raw flesh.

“Please, have a seat.” The same voice growled, shoving Draco into a chair. His teeth rattled.

“I advise you to follow our instructions, Mr. Malfoy. We simply wish to have a discussion with you.” A different drawl, familiar. A voice from his past.

“Professor,” he croaked, blinking his eyes open. His eyes adjusted as he took in his surroundings. He was in a white, windowless room, fluorescent lights buzzed above him and before he was a metal table, bolted to the concrete floor. And on the other side of the table sat Minerva McGonagall, beside her, the man who had thrown him in the chair, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“It’s actually Headmistress, now, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall corrected.

Draco’s lips twitched. The crone was as stern as ever, her hair pulled tightly back into a bun at the base of her skull.

“Congratulations.” A headache was forming at his temples, a persistent throb knocking against his skull. He was also painfully aware of the thirst gripping him in a chokehold.

He swallowed, shifting his gaze to the man beside her.

“Minister.” Draco gave a shallow nod. He doubted the man would shake Draco’s hand, even under different circumstances. Draco’s gaze flickered to the table where his shackled hands lay. He was surprised to recognize the shape of his fingers beneath the filth, the knuckles at their base, his palms and nailbeds.

“We will get straight to the point, Malfoy,” Shacklebolt began, his voice gruff. “We are in need of your services.”

“We have a proposition for you,” McGonagall amended.

Draco carefully arranged his features, holding her gaze. He refused to blink, refused to breathe.

This couldn’t be real. This was a trick.

He rested his hands against his mental wall. One, two, three.

“Hermione Granger has forsaken her magic,” Shacklebolt stated, his jaw tense. “She has abandoned the Wizarding World and is refusing to speak or engage with any of her previous friends and acquaintances.”

“So?” Draco drawled.

McGonagall scowled. “Well, firstly, Mr. Malfoy. Hermione Granger is an integral and crucial part of the Wizarding community. Her absence is deeply felt from her friends and loved ones. She left without explanation on the eve of her wedding to Mr. Weasley.” She pursed her lips. “And secondly, one does not simply forsake their magic. It causes,” a pause. “Severe side effects.”

Draco arched a brow. Granger had gone off the deep end. It was bound to happen at some point, the witch was too tightly coiled. “Side effects?”

Silence. McGonagall shifted in her seat.

“There have been muggle reports of natural disasters occurring all across London. The muggles believe that the city is being hit with earthquakes, hurricanes, tsunamis, and meteor showers. It is a small-scale Armageddon, of sorts.”

Draco arched an eyebrow.

“A muggle belief of the end of the world. When one does not use their magic, it does not simply retreat or dissipate. Magic is in a person’s blood, it’s in the soul.” Shacklebolt reasoned. “Think of it as a dormant volcano; the magic sleeps, but if it lays unused, then it will erupt. As Miss Granger’s has.”

“Many innocent people have been injured. We must stop her before these emissions become fatal,” McGonagall explained, worry lining her aging face.

“I’m not following. My wand was stripped from me when I arrived in this place,” he gestured to the walls surrounding them, the shackles at his wrists clattering on the floor. “There is no magic here. As far as I know, we aren’t in the midst of, what did you call it? Armageddon?”

“Prisoners do not forsake their magic. Yes, it is unused, but with each feed, a Dementor takes your soul, and in turn your magic with it. By the time your magic replenishes, the Dementors slowly deplete it.”

A chill ran through him, cold and raw, weaving its way through the empty spaces of who he used to be: the absent memories, the roar of his magic. He clenched his jaw against the emptiness.

“Why me?” Draco pressed. “What makes you think I could bring her back? It’s not as though we’re on amiable terms. We’re not bloody penpals. We despised one another in school. She tried to have me expelled on more than one occasion. And there was that time she assaulted me.” His throat ached and his eyes strained to remain open.

This was too much.

He craved darkness, if only to sooth the ache at his temples.

His eyes squeezed shut.

McGonagall barked out a laugh. “She slapped you, Draco. It’s not as though you were hospitalized. Please.”

He cracked open an eye and glared at the Headmistress.

“We have exhausted all other options. We don’t know what else to do.”

He opened both of his eyes and leveled McGonagall with a stare. They were desperate. Good.

“Your tumultuous and strained history is why we believe you will make a good candidate to execute this mission,” Shacklebolt rationalized. “She won’t suspect you. All of her friends- Potter, Longbottom, Lovegood, the Weasleys- they all and more, have approached her and tried to reason with her. But she is unreachable. She ignores them, escapes them, refuses to speak to them. On one occasion she even threatened Mr. Weasley with a weapon.”

Draco fixed his gaze onto McGonagall. “The woman is a lunatic.”

The Headmistress loosed an exasperated sigh and flung her hands in the air.

“What am I to expect in return,” he asked. “For risking my life and well-being for this little quest of yours?”

“Your sentence will be considered served.”

Draco sucked in a breath, it rattled in his lungs and then settled, still and solid in his chest.

“Meaning, I will never have to step foot in Azkaban again?”

“Not unless you cast an Unforgivable or follow another Dark Lord,” Shacklebolt snapped.

“I’ll do it.”

McGonagall raised her brows. “You haven’t heard all of our terms, Mr. Malfoy.”

“It doesn’t matter.” his hands were fists on the metal table, the knuckles pushing white against his flesh. “I’ll do it, on one condition.”

“Anything,” McGonagall said. Shacklebolt threw her a warning glare, but McGonagall was looking at Draco. Her eyes fierce and focused.

“I want Blaise Zabini.” His mental wards shuddered, but the words fell strong and true from his lips. “Release him, give him the same opportunity you are giving me.” His throat felt thick with hope, he swallowed. “I will only do this with him by my side.”

“Done.”

With that single word, the wall came crashing down, leaving nothing but rubble and dust in its wake.

He thought of the door 1,248 steps away and hazel eyes. Draco shuddered, his head falling to his chest.

Shacklebolt pointed his wand to Draco’s hands, releasing the shackles from his wrists.

“An unbreakable vow, then,” Shacklebolt said, his colorful robes shifting to expose his arm.

Draco lifted his arm, his hand wrapping around the Minister’s forearm. He shivered, his pale fingers trembling against the man’s dark skin.

“Will you Draco Malfoy, watch over Hermione Granger, and to the best of your ability, keep her from hurting innocent muggles?”

“I will.”

“And, will you, Draco Malfoy, bring Hermione Granger back to her true and rightful place in the Wizarding World?”

He paused. “I will.”

Then, “And you, Kingsley Shacklebolt, swear that if I do this, if I protect Hermione Granger and bring her back, I, Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini, will be free from our sentences in Azkaban and will be able to live as free wizards?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s eyes burned black. “I do.”

The magic glowed bright against their joined forearms.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione Granger drummed her fingers against the polished oak bar and wondered how much more of this she would have to endure.

“My father works in finances,” her date droned on, running a hand through his sandy hair. “The old bugger hates that I am pursuing a philosophy degree. Every time he rings, he tries to convince me to accept an internship at his office.”

She nodded her head and hummed, looking around for a clock. This wasn’t her usual watering hole. Tim or Todd or whatever this guy's name was had invited her to this place. The Thistle & Rose. It had opened about a month ago and it was just enough out of the way that Hermione had yet to visit it during her nights out. The only reason why she had agreed was because she needed a …. release.

Especially after what happened last night.

A fragmented image crawled up her spine and manifested in her mind- a dark street corner, fallen electricity lines, blood on cement, sparks in the night.

Hermione shivered, tipping her glass back. Ice clinked against her teeth as she swallowed down the lingering memory.

She wiped her hand across her mouth, setting the empty tumbler onto a lone coaster.

Ted was droning on about the ‘Complete Works of Fredrich Nietzsche’ or some shite.

Her lungs filled with stale air, her fingers drumming a pattern on the bar.

A single tap, then another and another.

Once, twice, three times.

The bartender glanced up at her, pausing as he wiped a glass clean. His black shirt pulled tight across his firm biceps.

Hermione’s favorite pub was closer to her flat in the tightly packed corners of the university district. The bartenders were older men with graying beards and wary eyes, dirt underneath their fingernails and low tolerance for the antics of drunken college students. After all these months, they knew her name and her drink. Hermione found she preferred the dark corners and sticky floors of her pub compared to the gleaming tables, soft light and button-down crowd of this trendy place. But, as she raked her eyes over the bartender’s body, taking in his five o’clock shadow and fitted jeans, Hermione amended her original prejudice. Her eyes lingered on the considerable bulge at his crotch.

This place wasn’t so bad after all.

The bartender quirked his lips, raising a dark eyebrow. “Can I get you something, beautiful?”

He was Scottish. She loved Scottish men.

“Yeah,” she purred, leaning forward in her bar stool as she turned away from- what was his name? Tom? He was still prattling on about his daddy issues.

“Can I get another gin and soda? Extra lime.” She watched as his eyes trailed down the dip of her cleavage, his gaze caressing the swells of her breasts.

“Yeah, lass. I can do that.”

Tom cleared his throat. “I’ll take another as well, mate.”

The bartender glanced over at the rail of a man perched beside her, giving him a brief once over. He raised a brow at Hermione as if to say, _Really, this bloke?_

She gave a slight shrug. _His dating profile was deceiving._

“On your tab?” He directed the question to Philosophy Major.

Todd straightened his spine, pushing his thick frames up his nose. “Yeah, of course.”

The bartender grinned, shooting Hermione a wink. She watched the muscles in his chest shift as he took two tumblers from beneath the bar, then reached for the top shelf.

A smile, the first of the night, broke across her face as she watched him poor freely into her glass.

She begrudgingly turned back to her date, twisting in her stool as she crossed her legs. Hermione struggled to find his train of thought.

It sounded like was back to talking philosophy.

“Have you read any Nietzsche?” her date asked, inclining his head.

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster,” Hermione cited softly.

The bell over the door chimed, a cool breeze lifted the skirt at her knees.

Todd sat up straighter, leaning forward, as he finished the quote: “For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the entrance.

She stilled, her hands falling to her lap. Reflexively, her fingers went to her right thigh, grazing the holster hidden beneath her dress. She traced the edges of the blade tucked within it.

“Bloody hell, you may be the perfect woman,” Tim groaned, running a hand down his checkered button-up.

Hermione stood up from the barstool. “I have to go,” she paused, collecting her thoughts. “To the loo. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Hipster Tom blinked. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

The pretty bartender was back, setting down her drink. “Leaving so soon, love?”

Hermione tipped back the drink, swallowing the beverage whole. The gin bit at the back of her throat, dragging it’s claws down her esophagus.

“Just to the loo,” she muttered, setting the empty glass back down. “Where is it?”

She looked around, searching for his face in the clusters of moving and murmuring bodies.

There he was, sitting alone in a booth. Perusing a menu. Had he seen her? He must know she was here. He must have followed her, right?

The Scotsman was giving her directions. “Just down that hall, near the back. It’ll be on your left,” he was saying.

Hermione gave a vague nod of understanding.

She rallied herself, taking a stabilizing breath as she ran a hand through her hair. If she followed his directions, she would walk right by his table. She made her way through the bar, muttering a brief “pardon me” when she bumped up against a stranger’s body.

It wasn’t that she was afraid. No, it wasn’t fear she felt. It was exasperation. Anxiety. Fury. Why couldn’t they listen? Why couldn’t they just leave her alone and do as she asked? After all that she gave, didn’t she deserve that? Freedom. Anonymity. Oblivion.

She was a table away now.

Three steps, then she would be beside him.

Close enough to touch. Would he grab her? Is that what the Ministry had planned next? An abduction?

Her hand went to her thigh.

Two steps.

One step.

He looked up from his menu, his gaze finding hers. Her hand stilled on the knife.

He had the most beautiful eyes. They reminded Hermione of a painting her mother had kept over the fireplace when she was a little girl: a scenery, a grassy knoll at sunset.

He tilted his head, gaze leaving hers as he raised his arm and… waved. Not at her, but at the bartender.

Hermione moved past the table, turning back as the barkeep approached him and asked him for his order.

“Scotch, neat.” His voice was deep and smooth.

Hermione sucked in a breath, steadying herself. It was possible this was simply a coincidence. Some strange, cosmic misalignment. He could have a relative who lived down the street or an affinity for hip muggle pubs.

No. Hermione didn’t believe in chance. And she sure as hell didn’t believe in luck.

* * *

 

When she left the toilet and walked back toward the bar, a woman was perched on the booth beside him.

He sipped on his scotch as she traced circles on his thigh. Hermione watched him purr into her ear. The woman, older than them, with flaming hair and matching red lipstick, laughed. A true, full laugh. A tilting-of-the-head, deep, throaty cackle that carried to every corner of the busy pub.

Hermione fell into her seat beside Daddy’s Little Philosopher.

It was obviously a ruse, some elaborate plan to make her falter, to lower her defenses.

Well, let him do as he pleased. Hermione wasn’t planning on leaving before last call, and once she did, she wouldn’t be going back to her flat. If it wasn’t Tim- Todd?- then, she would be crawling out of the bartender’s bed tomorrow morning.

“So, where were we?” Hermione asked, turning her back on the scene, her fingers drumming against her right thigh.

* * *

Her date’s name was Tate, she’d found out.

After Hermione had called him the wrong name four times, he had made up some excuse to leave. A collection of Descartes essays or some shite.

After he left, the bartender had formally introduced himself. Simon. He invited her to stay till the end of his shift. That’s what she was doing, waiting. 

Taking each drink Simon placed in front of her, snagging conversation from the attractive Scot when he wasn’t mixing cocktails, and ignoring the table ten feet behind her.

That was, until he stepped beside her, leaning casually against the bar.

It was past midnight and the laughing woman was nowhere in sight. He was dressed in dark navy, jean button-up. His back was turned toward her, his broad shoulders blocking her vision.

Did he really not recognize her? They’d spent 6 bloody years in the same castle, bumping elbows, for Merlin’s sake.

Hermione fumed.

From her perch on the stool, she could smell the him: wood fires and sunlight. Fire. Heat.

Simon approached him. “Tab?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m calling it a night.”

Simon went to a screen behind the counter and came back with a bill. The bartender suddenly appeared too lean and pale, compared to the man opposite him.

She watched as he pulled a wallet from the back pocket of his black jeans and selected an assortment of crisp bills and set them on the table, his fingers strong and sure. Then he turned and strode to the entrance, pushing open the door and leaving.

Just like that, he was gone.

Hermione stood. All rational thought vanished.

She followed him.

She pushed through the door, a bell ringing above her head.

He hadn’t even looked at her. Not once. It was like he didn’t know she was. Like he didn’t recognize her. Or didn’t care. The thought burrowed beneath her skin, racing to the beat of her heart.

The Thistle & Rose was located on a sleepy street lined with trees wrapped in small, twinkling lights. It was one of the few pubs in this part of town and despite its popularity and the crowd of people drinking at its bar, the area it was located in remained quiet. Hermione took a left out of the pub, following his retreating form.

When he turned down an alley, tucked between a consignment shop and a grocery, she followed, hand slipping to her thigh.

The alley was devoid of all light.

Hermione took a shallow breath, hand grazing against the cool stone of the wall nearest her, fingers trailing against its pebbled surface as she stepped into the darkness.

A memory from the night before came rushing back, swift and sharp before her eyes: waking up in the middle of the night, alone and afraid. The cries of an injured woman.

“You’re following me.” The words dripped like honey, dousing her thoughts.

The memory vanished. She blinked, fingers curling around the grip on her knife still tucked beneath her dress. “I know who sent you,” she accused, her voice soft as it lifted between them.

She squinted into the alley, eyes straining to make out his form. A witch-light flared to life between them, illuminating their surroundings.

Blaise Zabini stood before her, his looming form outlined by the silver light, a smirk playing at his full lips.

“And who would that be?” he crooned, closing the distance between them.

Hermione’s hand lingered at the hem of her black dress. Blaise tracked her movements, gaze lingering on her bare legs.

“Don’t insult me, Zabini.” She planted her feet firmly as she tilted her head to look into his eyes. His sunlit eyes. Even in the silver light they glowed with warmth.

She lifted her dress, slipping the knife from its holster, the cool night air spreading a flush of goosepimples up her thighs, as she pushed the blade to his throat.

“Nice to see you’ve armed yourself while prancing around the dangerous streets of muggle London,” the deep cadence of his voice wove into the night air around them.

“I’m not going back.” Hermione pushed against the hilt of the blade, watching as the steel pressed into his dark skin. “I don’t know why they sent you, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Don’t forget, sweet, you’re the one following me.”

A drop of his blood wept from the tip of her blade. Her eyes followed its trail down the slope of his Adam’s apple, before it disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

Blaise bent his head down, leaning into the knife. His nose grazed the lobe of her ear, lips brushing against her neck, breath hot against her flushed skin. Hermione loosened her grip, her breath catching in her throat. He lifted his hand, fingertips grazing her cheekbone. She shivered, resisting the urge to lean her head back and bring his mouth closer.

“You forget yourself, Granger,” Blaise whispered, teeth nipping at her collarbone.

A noise, soft and foreign, escaped her mouth. Before she could swallow it back, Blaise murmured beneath his breath, a soft "Accio," and the knife was gone. No longer in her hand, but in his.

He flung the blade aside. It flashed silver in the glow of the witch-light before landing amongst piles of rubbish, blinking out.

Blaise’s hand wrapped around her throat.

“The next time you put a knife to my throat,” he breathed against her hair, flexing his fingers, testing his grip. “You better use it.”

Hermione bit back an angry howl. The bastard. The rotten bastard. She could have used it, she would have.

Blaise shoved against her, knocking her head back into the stone wall behind her. She sucked in a breath, her legs parting as he pushed his muscular thigh into the juncture of her thighs, pressing himself into her. Hermione hated herself for the way her body responded to his heat, even as she gasped for breath.

The release called to her, a sweet siren song. Her blood boiled beneath the callouses of his fingers at her throat. She wanted to rub herself against the hard planes of his body.

“Fight back,” he bit out, nostrils flaring.

She searched his face, questioning. Realization struck her, cold and swift. 

He wanted her to use magic.

A flare of anger rushed through her.

She wanted to make him feel pain. Even if it was in a small way, a small muggle way.

Hermione shifted, raising her hands to his muscular forearm. She felt the tendons beneath her fingers flex as she gripped him, digging her nails into his flesh. They locked eyes as she slowly pulled her nails back against his flesh, tattooing four jagged lines on each of his arms. The tang of his blood released into the air.

Blaise’s gaze was hot against her face, moving between her eyes.

“You can do better,” he huffed, taking a step back.

Her hands dropped to her sides, his blood dripping from her fingertips.

“You are the Golden Girl, after all,” he murmured.

He bent down and retrieved her discarded knife, then stalked toward her where she stood frozen against the wall. Gently, he lifted the hem of her dress, his knuckles grazing the inside of her thigh as he tucked the blade back into its holster.

“See you around, Granger.”

Then she was alone in the alley, her hands trembling at her sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Blaise! Be still my beating heart. *swoon*  
> I honestly can't get enough of this story and these characters.  
> Happy Friday! Sending all the love xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a snow day for me today! 
> 
> I was able to skip work AND finish Blaise’s chapter. 
> 
> Dreams really do come true. ;)

Blaise took the steps two at a time, hurrying up the stairwell to the small flat the Ministry had provided him and Draco two weeks prior.

It was not what either of them had grown up with, the studio was about the size of the in-suite bathrooms they had as children. But, it was theirs.

And it was cozier than the damp cell he’d lived in the past year.

He opened the flat door and was overcome by the aroma of burnt toast.

“Are you trying to cook again, darling?” Blaise called, kicking off his boots. “I thought we decided I was the chef in this relationship.”

He entered the small kitchen where Draco was bent over an aged cookbook, squinting at the tiny font, his wand tucked behind his ear.

A mysterious, unidentified liquid was boiling in a pot on the stove. Tendrils of smoke wafted from the toaster where two slices of bread were burning to crisps.

“Giving orders to hired help doesn’t make you a chef, dearest,” Draco drawled, lifting his gaze from the recipe.

Blaise smirked. “But I’m so good at bossing people around.”

He stalked to the stormy-eyed wizard, lifting the book from his hands and tossing it on the marble counter.

“See? I’m ordering you to stop trying to burn the house down.” With a wave of his hand, the boiling pot settled to a simmer and the charred crusts of bread vanished.

Blaise cupped Draco’s chin, rubbing a thumb against his jaw. “I missed you.”

“You were gone for three hours,” Draco huffed as Blaise plucked the wand from behind the blonde’s ear and set it gently beside the recipe book.

“It felt like an eternity,” Blaise murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips against Draco’s mouth.

It was true. He despised being away from the other man. Something inside him, something small and raw and vulnerable, shivered.

The last nine months had been torture. Not because of the soul-sucking guards or the less-than-edible meal supplements. No, the cruelest form of punishment the Ministry could have sentenced him was erecting an impenetrable stone wall between himself and Draco. A single barrier had never been more isolating. He had existed knowing he was mere feet from Draco, yet he wasn’t able to see him, touch him, hear his voice.

Except his screams.

Blaise deepened the kiss, dragging his hand to the nape of Draco’s neck, weaving his fingers through white-blonde hair. Draco responded with a groan, closing the distance between them, kissing him back with long sweeps of his tongue. Blaise’s body heated, all of his clothes suddenly felt extraneous.

“I was attempting to make us a romantic dinner,” Draco mumbled against his mouth.

“I’m not hungry for food,” Blaise replied, nipping at his lip.

He knew there were matters to be discussed, one of them being the curly-haired viper who had mauled him just half an hour previous, but Draco was here. Warm-blooded and alive in his arms. He would sooner fall onto Hermione Granger’s knife than extinguish the yearning in his bones for this man, his man.

And it had been a long nine months.

“You say that now,” Draco moaned, tipping his head back. Blaise latched himself onto the outstretched neck, licking and biting at the vein pulsing to the beat of his racing heart.

“But,” Draco’s breath hitched. “You’re an awful git when you’re hungry, I’m trying to diffuse the situation.”

“We’ll order something later,” Blaise deflected, lifting Draco’s shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor.

Blaise dropped to his knees and unbuckled the belt before him. With a swift pull, he yanked Draco’s jeans down to his ankles.

Draco’s was a body that was meant to be seen, venerated, idolized. He was a god, carved from stone, created for worship.

From his position on the floor, Blaise looked up at the man before him, at the scars and lines of lean muscle, the silver trail of hair leading down into black boxer briefs. Blaise hooked a finger into the elastic waistband and gently pulled the material down to Draco’s thighs.

A thick, pink cock sprang to life, bouncing before his gaze.

Blaise’s mouth watered.

He was burning, his skin hot and tight with arousal. The bulge in his jeans pushed against his zipper, begging to be unleashed.

Even when they had been in that awkward stage between boyhood and maturity, Draco had the ability to make Blaise lose his grip on reality. With a single lift of his brow or tilt of the lips, Draco made every drop of blood in Blaise’s body rush to his groin.

“I need you,” he rasped, licking his lips. “I need to taste you. I need you in my mouth.”

Draco’s eyes burned beneath hooded lids. He nodded soundlessly, giving Blaise’s shaved head a gentle caress.“Take me.”

Blaise pressed a kiss to the puckered scar carved against Draco’s abdomen, then licked down to his belly button, dipping his tongue into the shallow crevice. Reverently, he grabbed Draco’s cock in his palm, giving it a long stroke and placing an open-mouth kissed on its weeping head.

“You’re so beautiful,” Draco murmured, cradling Blaise’s head, his eyes black with lust as he watched him lick and suck on his throbbing erection.

Blaise hummed against him, fingers moving to cup his balls.

Draco lurched, arching his cock deeper into Blaise’s throat. He gripped the counter, knuckles white.

He relaxed his throat and took him deeper, saliva dripping from his lips and lubricating Draco’s thickening length.

An inch and then another. Blaise opened his mouth wider. Merlin, this man was huge.

And he was his.

He wanted to unravel him, destroy him, take him to the edge and throw him over, then jump in after him.

Draco groaned as he relaxed his throat, his lips brushing against his pelvis. He held himself there, Draco’s hands on his head, holding him tenderly.

When he pulled back, Draco’s glistening cock left his lips with a hollowed pop. Suddenly, he was pushed to his back on the tiled floor beneath them, Draco falling to his knees before him.  
His eyes burned with intent as he deftly removed the briefs from his thighs and made his way up Blaise’s body. His fingers moved to Blaise’s waist, unfastening his jeans and pulling them from his legs. When they were off, Draco ran his hands up and behind Blaise’s thighs, tucking his hands beneath his briefs and cupping his bare ass. Draco kneaded into his flesh.

“I’m going to bury myself inside you,” he vowed, his voice husky with lust.

Blaise swallowed thickly, nodding his head. Yes.

He pulled his underwear off, unveiling his arousal. It bobbed, falling hard against his abdomen. Draco licked his lips, lifting Blaise’s legs up and over his shoulders. He bent down and a flare of pleasure shot through his core as Draco tasted him, running his tongue over his asshole.

Blaise groaned, his head falling against the tiled floor as Draco laved at him. When he slipped a finger inside him, a fire ignited in his lower belly, spreading hot and fast through his veins.

Blaise reached for Draco, his fingers clutching at his silky hair.

“Fuck me. Right now.”

Draco smiled between his legs. “So bossy.”

His breath was hot against him.

Another sweep of his tongue and a second finger entered him.

Blaise clenched, crying out. His cock twitched against his stomach.

“You fucking snake,” he hissed. Draco responded with a flick of his tongue.

“I just want to make sure you can take me,” he whispered, nipping at his buttocks. “It’s been awhile.”

“You know I can take it,” he bit out, yanking on the other man’s hair.

If he wasn’t desperate for the wanker to shut up and fuck him, he would have been insulted.

Draco slipped his fingers out of him and released his knees.

He crawled up his body, kissing and licking his way up to his mouth.

“You’re really here,” Draco whispered against his lips, resting his hands on Blaise knees, spreading him wider.

“So are you,” he replied, brushing their noses together. He kissed him, their tongues dancing in hot strokes.

Draco reached between them, rubbing his width against Blaise’s rim. Draco felt impossibly large against. He shivered in anticipation.

He lifted Blaise’s knees and with a thrust, entered him. He moaned, reaching his hands around their entwined bodies to dig his nails into Draco’s ass.

Storm-cloud eyes found his. Draco stilled inside him.

Are you okay?

Blaise suppressed an eye-roll. “Deeper, you oaf. I can take it.”

Draco breathed a laugh, pressing a kiss against his neck as he rocked into him fully, to the hilt.

His vision went white.

There weren’t words to describe how full he felt.

Draco pulled and pushed, slow at first, then fast and steady. His hands gripped Blaise’s knees to keep himself balanced as he crashed into him like a cresting wave.

“Fuck,” Draco moaned, his hair falling into his eyes. “I’ve missed this.”

Blaise’s mouth opened in a silent cry, craving something-anything- between his lips, on his tongue. As if reading his mind, Draco slipped his calloused thumb into Blaise’s mouth and he bit down.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. All he could feel was the fullness of Draco’s cock inside him, pushing him towards the plummet. He was so close to falling.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Draco groaned, a sheen of sweat covering his muscled chest.

Blaise wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself in time to Draco’s thrusts. His balls tightened, a pressure building inside him, rising into his throat.

“I’m going to come,” Blaise breathed.

Draco leaned forward, lowering his face and body to place both hands on either side of his shoulders. Blaise shifted, wrapping his legs around Draco’s glutes. The position stretched him even further. He choked on a moan.

Draco continued his pace, rutting him hard and fast. Blaise squeezed his cock, staring up into Draco’s face.

He fell apart, exploding at the seams in bursts of hot seed.

Draco cried out and with a final thrust, buried himself to the hilt inside him, releasing his essence. Blaise clung to him, running his hands up his back and into his hair.

When their breathing finally slowed, Draco gently lifted off of him and fell to the tile with a soft grunt.

Semen sparkled against Blaise’s abdomen, twinkling in the low light of the kitchen. Draco scooped a drop onto his finger, lazily sucking the cream into his mouth.

A low rumble echoed through the space: Blaise’s stomach betraying him.

Draco chuckled. “Hungry?” He purred.

Blaise smirked, summoning a delivery menu from the fridge.

“Wanker,” he muttered.

* * *

Later, they lay in bed surrounded by empty take-out containers. Blaise sat bare-chested, a pillow perched behind his back, chewing on an egg-roll.

Draco slurped a noodle into his mouth. “So,” he began. “How’d it go with Granger?”

He swallowed down the last bite and licked his fingers. “Let’s just say the lioness has claws. The witch came at me with a knife.”

Draco sat up, dropping the container of cold chow-mien. He grabbed Blaise’s arm, scanning the four jagged scratches carved there.

“She did this?” He growled, eyes searching Blaise’s bare chest, looking for other marks.

When his gaze found the scab on his neck where Granger had held her knife to him, Draco’s face clouded over with a simmering rage.

“She’s harmless,” he appeased, sitting up in bed.

“Obviously not,” Draco snarled. He loosened his grip, carefully rubbing his thumb beneath the marks. A warmth emanated from his palm. “Let me heal you.”

“It’s okay,” Blaise said, reaching for Draco’s hand and halting the process.

With a furrowed brow, Draco dropped his hands to his lap. “You want to keep them. Why?”

He struggled with his answer.

There was a small part of him that liked what Granger had done; he wanted to wear the marks she’d left on him to remind himself of who she was, lest he forget: a hellion.

When he and Draco had discussed their first move, they had decided Blaise would be the first one to approach her. For multiple reasons, the biggest one being that she and Draco had a strained relationship, to say the least, while she and Blaise barely knew each other. They just wanted a sense of who she was, her routine and habits.

Over the last week they had been finding out little bits about her: where she lived- she still had the wretched feline- what she did during the day. And the night. She was enrolled in university, they had learned. And she dated. A lot.

This surprised him. Although, he hadn’t had much interaction with Granger when they were students, save for the times she and Draco had spat at one another like cats. What Blaise knew of her was limited to the stories spun by his two-faced bigoted peers, who despised her for her intelligence and blood status, the Daily Prophet, but even he knew the journalists weren’t reliable and the memories Draco held of her. Most of which were tainted by Lucius’ insistence that Draco best the muggle-born in each of their classes.

After seeing how Granger had responded to him, a near stranger, he was glad he had approached her first. He shivered to think what she would have done to Draco.

The woman was small and fierce. Dangerous.

“She intrigues me,” he finally murmured. “When I saw her tonight I was tempted to knock her out, throw her over my shoulder and toss her at Shacklebolt’s feet.”

Blaise paused, lightly tugging at the small hoop in his left ear. “But, there’s something going on there, Draco. I put my hand to her throat and she didn’t even flinch. She refuses to use magic even to protect herself.” He thought of the way her eyes had burned bright with unbridled ire as she dug her nails into his flesh. His magic had flared, sensing the roar of power rushing through her blood.

“I think she’s going to have another blow-out soon. I could feel the magic inside her. It aches for release.”

Draco nodded, deep in thought. “We need to move quickly then. We need to find a way for her to trust us.”

It was the only way to meet the terms the Ministry and laid before them.

Hermione Granger could not be coerced, manipulated or physically removed from her current residence in the muggle world. Meaning, they couldn’t hit her with a Stunning charm and leave her on the Ministry’s doorstep.

No harm must come to her. She must return to the Wizarding World of her own volition.

Somehow, impossible as it seemed, he and Draco needed to make Hermione want to return to magic, choose to.

He thought again of the fire in her eyes, the feel of the knife at his throat and the softness of her body beneath him.

“What if we can’t bring her back?” he paused. “We need to think of other options, like what we’re going to do if we can’t complete this task.”

Draco’s eyes shuttered, his storm-grey gaze becoming distant and guarded.

“That’s not an option.”

A flare of panic lodged itself in his throat.

Blaise had seen this expression before: Draco’s ability to throw up an impenetrable mental shield to protect his innermost thoughts. It was what kept the most secret and cherished parts of him alive in Azkaban.

He had seen that look directed towards his parents, towards his aunt and the other Death Eaters.

He’d seen him direct it towards Voldemort.

But, never him.

Draco wasn’t afraid, he was never afraid. And although the prospect of returning to Azkaban wasn’t exactly thrilling, they had survived the first nine months.

They could survive it again.

Right?

He looked at Draco, the silver of his hair glinting in the low light. He had chosen to keep it long after they were released, opting to have the sides near his ears shaved close to his scalp. It was incredibly sexy.

He lifted his hand to Draco’s face, lightly brushing the hair off his forehead.

“What are you thinking about?” He whispered.

Draco’s eyes softened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “See for yourself.”

Blaise fingers stilled against his brow. As a skilled Legilimens, he was careful not to intrude into Draco’s mind. After all these years, he didn’t need his gift to tell him what Draco was thinking. He knew the man’s thoughts as well as he knew his own.

He looked into his eyes and with a single breath slipped into Draco’s thoughts, letting him lead the way.

A flash of their time in the kitchen came to him: Blaise laid out on the floor, Draco pushing in and out as Blaise he his head against the tile. His cock twitched at the memory.

They pulled out of the sequence and Draco led him to a blueprint of an emerging thought; before his eyes, strings were being connected, strategies drawn.

A plan. Their next move.

Blaise smirked.

Hermione Granger, he thought, we’re coming for you. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I have to show for the three-day weekend is this chapter! I have been utterly lazy the last few days. It was glorious. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, loves. xx

On Saturday morning, Hermione was pulled from a restless sleep, a sleep plagued with hazel eyes and rough caresses, by the sound of rushing water reverberating through the wall beside her head.

She rubbed her eyes, blinking away the lingering dream and leaned over to peak at the clock on her end table.

It was just shy of eight o’clock.

She silently cursed.

Damn Candice and her bright-eyed-busy-tailed morning routine. Her roommate was notorious for her early morning exercise routine: “Nothing like a run and a smoothie to get you ready for the day!” was her favorite catchphrase. Judging by the water whistling through the pipes, Candice was back from her sweat session and in the shower.

Hermione groaned, stretching her limbs until her toes peaked from beneath the floral comforter.

She felt like she could sleep another 12 hours, sleep right through this day and into tomorrow, sleep away her memory of the interaction with _him_ the night before.

Blaise Zabini.

An unwelcome rush of heat settled in her lower belly with the thought of him in the alley: the way he had stalked over to her like a predator, so controlled and confident. The memory of him had haunted her dreams, she imagined he chased her through the dark streets of Soho district. Taunting her at every turn as they raced through the night. When he had finally captured her, his body heavy and hot, pressed flush against her own, he had kissed her. Open-mouthed and hungry, his hands roving over her body.

Reflexively, she rubbed her legs together chasing the ache between her thighs.

She mewled, yearning for friction. Yearning for his hot, hard -

With a frustrated growl, Hermione ripped the covers off her body and pushed herself out of bed.

Stupid, bleeding fool.

Her cheeks heated with shame. The bugger had _choked_ her. She couldn’t possibly be deranged enough to be attracted to a man who had attacked her in an alley.

Hermione paused, clenching her bedsheets. She wasn’t excusing his behavior, but, she had seen it in his eyes: he hadn’t intended to hurt her.

For some reason unbeknownst to her, he had wanted to provoke her. He had wanted her to use magic. It was utterly baffling. Why would Blaise Zabini care about her magic? Could he somehow sense she wasn’t using it? Or was it just him being a prat and wanting to see “the Golden Girl” snap?

Or worse, had the Ministry sent him?

Her thoughts spiraled and panic seized her.

It didn’t make sense. She barely knew the man. Other than the fact they had shared a handful of classes at Hogwarts, he was a near stranger to her. The Ministry wouldn’t send a prat like Blaise Zabini to drag her back to the Wizarding World. And if they had, couldn’t he have just stunned her and taken her with him forcefully?

Unless this was all a part of some grand, elaborate plan to make her stew in her anxiety, waiting for him to make the next move.

She was no prey.

Hermione shook her head, releasing her bedhead in a cloud of dark curls. She ran her hands through her hair, tugging her fingers through the tangled mess. She was overthinking this and she knew it. The odds of her seeing the Slytherin again were low. Practically non-existent.

The throbbing between her legs deepened.

She knew what she needed. A distraction. A release. Something to take the edge off the burning need simmering in her blood. A cold shower would have to do for now, which was fortunate for Hermione as cold water would be all that was left once Candice finished bathing.

Maybe the bartender from the night before would be working again tonight. Maybe she would wander back into the Thistle & Rose and see if he was willing to forgive her for leaving without a goodbye last night. If he wasn’t, then she would have to return to Plan B: the feared and dreaded dating app. She didn’t think she could survive another date with a fool like the Hipster Philosopher.

How difficult was it to find a one-night stand? Bloody hell, she lived in a city filled with horny uni-students for crying out loud. Did she have some kind of neon sign on her head flashing “Don’t Fuck Me! Damaged Goods! Just Got Out of a Long-Term Relationship! Left my Fiancé at the Alter and I’ll Probably Ditch You, Too!”?

Hermione sighed, standing from her bed and walking to her dresser. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. A whisper of a bruise, the size of a grape, colored the right side of her throat; the place where Blaise’s thumb had pressed into her trachea the night before. Gingerly, she brushed the purple shadow with her fingertips. A simple healing charm would vanish the mark from her skin.

She flinched from the thought, inhaling sharply through her nose.

No matter how she fought to contain the memories of her old life, her old ways, the knowledge bubbled to the surface, her mind betraying her by recalling random facts she wished would disappear.

Facts that she wanted to make disappear forever.

It had been three months. Three months since she had left that note to Ron and Harry. Three months since she had left Crookshanks- she swallowed against the thickening of her throat. Three months since she had left all of her belongings and wandered into muggle London without anything but her wallet and her favorite sweater and worn-out pair of jeans.

Ever since she had left her old life behind, the _need_ , as she called it, sang to her. It sang in ways she hated, ways she tried- and failed- to ignore. And although she hated to admit it, rebelling against the need, the call of her nature, her… magic- she tripped on the word, ignoring the answering flare of recognition in her blood- was more difficult than she initially thought it would be.

At first, it had only occurred once a week or so. Now, every couple days the sickness repeated itself. The aching in her bones, the boiling in her blood. The longer she ignored it, the worse it got. Her skin felt too tight for her bones, her clothes scratchy and foreign against her flesh. The urge to cast a spell, to relieve the magic bubbling inside her, pushing at her seams, was… overwhelming, maddening.

It wasn't like Hermione hadn’t prepared for this. Only a fool would assume that forsaking one’s innate magical ability would be a walk in the park. There wasn’t much printed text or research on the effects of denying one’s magic, but Hermione assumed there would be a … transitional period.

She just hadn’t expected it would be this painful.

On the worst nights, she locked herself in her room and turned up her music so no one could hear her crying, screaming, begging for it to end. Until she passed out from the pain, slipping into an unconsciousness marked with dreams of destruction: waves crashing, sidewalks cracking, lightening streaking across the sky.

By the time she awoke the next morning, it would have dissipated. She would be in control of her body again, she was able to breath without lungs aching, move her limbs without feeling like her ribs were clenching her organs in a vise-like grip. It was if somehow the need had found its release. Or, perhaps, just absorbed back into itself.

Hermione was never conscious when the pain ended and the relief arrived.

Except for two nights ago, when she had awoken in her pajamas in a neighborhood near her flat. Telephone poles collapsed around her, car alarms shrieking, fallen power lines sparking on the cracked cement. As dazed homeowners stumbled from their houses, torchlights illuminating the darkness, Hermione had fled back to her apartment. The next day, newspapers explained the incident as an isolated event. An unexplainable fluke occurrence- a 6.8 magnitude earthquake that only effected those within a one-kilometer radius.

The incident had rattled her.

She wasn’t able to explain it, she couldn’t rationalize how she had ended up on that street. Could it be possible she had sleep-walked? That some part of her had sensed that the earthquake was going to occur and had wanted to help those affected by the disaster? Had her subconscious led her to that location on instinct?

The whole thing was what had led her to download that stupid, bleeding app that Candice used. It was what led her to go out with that wanker philosopher the night before. She needed to find control again. She needed to bury her fear with buckets of gin and mindless, meaningless sex.

Hermione was tracing the blossoming bruise on her neck when her bedroom door swung open, revealing her roommate. She quickly pulled her curls over her shoulder, concealing the mark.

Candice had her hand on the doorframe, balancing herself as she shoved her foot into a heeled boot. Her dark hair was still damp, tiny droplets wetting the front of her pale pink blouse.

“Oh good, you’re awake! Do these shoes match my outfit?” She flung out her arms and kicked out one of her feet.

Hermione sighed, “Candice, you know I’m not the right person to ask.”

“Hermione,” the girl leveled her with a stare. “Just humor me, okay?” Her hands soared through the air as if she was painting a picture. “You’re walking down the street and you see a gorgeous Asian of Singaporean decent.” She paused, flipping her dripping hair over her shoulder and giving another flourish of her wrist. “Dressed like this. What are your immediate thoughts?”

Hermione smiled. They did this same routine every morning. Hermione had never been one for fashion, always preferring comfort over extravagance, but Candice had helped a bit with that over the last few months. Apparently, the girl refused to bunk with someone whose closest consisted mainly of jeans and sweaters. Three months of residing with Candice and now her wardrobe was filled with all kinds of clothes she had never owned before- shift dresses and gauzy skirts, cropped tops and off-the-shoulder blouses. Somehow, Candice had been able to drag Hermione into current, muggle fashion and find things that suited her body, but also her personality. Or at least, the person she wanted to be.

Meeting Candice had been a godsend, for multiple reasons. After a week of sleeping in a hostel and scouring the local paper for rentals, she had found Candice’s posting on the campus bulletin. It had said something to the effect of: “Looking for a roommate who isn’t lame and won’t murder me in my sleep.”

On the day they scheduled to meet at a coffee shop near the flat, Hermione’s heart had sank upon seeing Candice’s flashy style and designer handbag. She glanced down at her dull clothes and knew this girl couldn’t possibly want to room with the likes of her and resigned herself to another day of house-hunting. But, when Candice saw the book in Hermione’s hand- a used copy of Jane Eyre- the girl had squealed and promptly started a discussion of the best movie adaptations of her favorite Brontë sister’s novel. They had talked for nearly an hour- it turned out, Candice studied classical literature and shared many of Hermione’s bookish interests.

It turned out Candice was exactly what Hermione had needed in a roommate: she picked up after herself (mostly), didn’t ask too many nosy questions (mostly) and was the perfect person to seek out reckless distraction with: she was always up for a night out on the town and knew of all the nightclubs and dive bars in the city. She also liked to bake, when she wasn’t preaching about the benefits of exercise and cruciferous vegetables.

“You look great, Candy.” Hermione replied. “Fantastical! Breathtaking! Sublime! You are a vision in pink.” And she meant it. Candice had her father’s golden-skin and almond-shaped eyes and her mother’s tall, lean frame. The girl was a stunner.

“Ah, thanks, roomie,” Candice said with a grin. “I’m planning on wearing these babies to the opening tonight.” She looked lovingly down at the knee-high leather boots, then glanced back up toward Hermione. “You’re still planning on coming, right?” When Hermione gave her a blank look, Candice’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening in horror.

“The opening of the new club on Fourth!” The girl shrieked, sounding indignant that Hermione could have forgotten.

Right. The new club.

Candice had been looking forward to the opening for weeks now, ever since some famous blogger had dropped hints about its big reveal. The place was so secretive, a name for the club hadn’t even been provided yet. It was the biggest, most anticipated event of the month. There were sure to be loads of people there.

Realization dawned. This would be the perfect event for a steamy hook-up. She would finally be able to find a willing bloke to fuck without using that despicable dating app! Bless, Candice. She always seemed to know what Hermione needed.

“Yes, of course!” She tried not to sound too eager. “I’ll be there! Text me the address.”

“Will do! Okay, I’m off, love! Gots to run to class,” Candice sang, grabbing her keys and thermos.

Her roommate was enrolled at the University of London where she was working toward double majoring in British Literature and Language Theory, meaning the girl was taking classes six days a week. It was a wonder she had time to exercise, let alone date.

At the door, Candice paused, bending down to scoop up the mail. She quickly thumbed through the letters, grabbing one from the bottom before tossing it onto the entry table.

“You’ve got post!” She hollered, slamming the door shut behind her.

Hermione took a breath as she made her way toward the single white envelope.

There were only a handful of people who knew where she lived. It wasn’t as if it were a secret, Hermione knew that with the right…tools…certain people would have no trouble finding her address. Every week she received another letter, although she was hoping that as more time passed, their frequency would begin to wane. It hadn’t happened yet.

Hermione picked up the envelope, barely glancing at the messy scrawl- Ron’s scrawl- before tossing it into the rubbish bin.

Then, she went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and let the cold water cleanse her. 

* * *

 

Hermione rushed into the University of London’s College of Education’s library break-room, quickly flinging her change of clothes for the night into an empty locker.

She was nearly five minutes late, having almost forgotten her shift. That damn dream from the night before had left her all distracted and disorientated.

When she had first applied to be a student at the University of London, Hermione’s application had been wait-listed. It had been the middle of winter term and the renowned college was not accepting incoming freshmen. It also didn’t help that despite her age- she was nearly 21- Hermione didn’t have a single reference or letter of recommendation.

Thankfully, the dean of the college had agreed to meet with her and after a fruitful conversation about the current state of politics and their shared interest in foreign film, he had agreed to overlook her lack of references. He had suggested Hermione apply for a clerk position in one of the university’s college libraries, as she was interested in applying for the library science program.

She had, and currently worked in the College of Education’s library four nights a week through the rest of the semester before she began her studies at the start of spring term the following month.

Hermione rushed to the information desk where she spotted her supervisor, Peter, a graduate student in the library science program, assisting an undergrad.

She waited, quickly clipping on her name tag and tucking her hair behind her ears.

Peter wrapped up with the student, handing the boy a slip of paper and gesturing toward the elevators, when he smiled in Hermione’s direction, his freckles pulling tight on his cheeks. “Late start?”

Hermione blushed, “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. It’s not usually like me to forget a shift.”

“It’s fine, it happens to the best of us,” the ginger assuaged.

Hermione found she couldn’t look at him too long, he reminded her too much of her past.

“There are a ton of books that need to be re-shelved in the Archives and Rare Books Collections. Are you up for the task?”

“Yes, I’m on it,” Hermione replied, rounding the desk toward the cart of books behind Peter’s chair.

With a wave goodbye, she headed toward the elevators and took the lift down to the basement floor. Pushing the cart, she weaved through the library stacks to the Archives and Rare Books section tucked in the back corner. The sound of buzzing, fluorescent lights greeted her. It was the only level without windows, as the sunlight could damage the fragile texts, and students seemed to avoid it all costs. It was quiet and that was fine for Hermione, as she preferred the silence. There was a peace to it, when your breath and the turning wheels of the cart were the only sounds. It was so contrary to the buzzing in her bones and the thoughts bouncing around her head.

She prayed that one day that peace would seep into her skin and flush out her bloodstream, leaving only quiet in its wake.

Hermione slowed, pulling her cart to a stop as she entered Archives section. A flash of silver caught her eye and she realized she wasn’t alone in the stacks.

There was a student standing down the aisle from her, flipping through the pages of a book. His back was turned toward her, but there was something familiar about his lean figure and bright hair.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

It couldn’t be.

A name, paired with a face of sharp angles and storm-gray eyes, rattled through her mind. A name she hadn’t thought about in years.

She clung to reason like a lifeline. Silver hair was a fad raging across the streets of London. Even Candice had toyed with the idea of bleaching her hair gray. And last she checked, Draco Malfoy- her heart stuttered at his name- was locked behind bars in Azkaban.

Where he belonged. May the bastard rot in peace.

She watched, her heart racing, as the man tucked something behind his ear. Squinting, she made out the slender outline of a pencil.

It was just a student. Hermione loosed a breath.

A laugh escaped her lips, something between a sigh of relief and an exasperated giggle.

The interaction with Blaise, along with the tension of the last few days, was beginning to gnaw on her sensibilities.

Hermione turned back to her cart, plucking an encyclopedia from the stack and sliding it into place on the shelf before her. Slowly, she moved down the aisle, shelving the tomes on her cart and paying little attention to the shadow looming near the end of the stacks.

A buzz echoed in the silence and Hermione plucked her vibrating cell-phone from her pocket, glancing at the screen as she answered the call.

“Hey, Candice,” she whispered.

“Hermione! Oh my god,” the girl squealed. “I met the sexiest guy on campus today. He literally dumped a coffee all over me, nearly burned my tits off, but oh Lord, it was worth it. He insisted on replacing my shirt and ughh,” Candice moaned. “You know how I feel about men who appreciate fashion. He is fucking EDIBLE, ‘Mione. I invited him to the club tonight and he said he wouldn’t miss it!”

“That’s great, Candy,” she glanced around, looking over at the student reading just a few feet from her. He didn’t seem to be perturbed by the phone call, in fact, he’d barely moved at all, it must be a damn interesting book he was reading. “Does he have a friend?”

“Girl. You know I wouldn’t leave you hanging, I’m already two-steps ahead of you. He said he’d bring his roommate! He showed me a picture and honey,” Candice sighed into the phone. “He is breathtaking. You two would make beautiful babies.”

Hermione laughed, “I’m not looking to reproduce!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Candice replied jokingly. “Tonight’s going to be grand! I’m on my way home to change now. Where are you?”

“I’m at the library. I forgot I had a shift today, but I’ll be off by 10.”

“Okay, I’ll just meet you there then, yeah?”

“Sounds good. What’s the address again?”

“It’s 468 Fourth Street. Right across from that one fish and chips place we went to last month,” she clarified.

Hermione repeated the address under her breath, committing it to memory. “Right, okay. I’ll see you tonight!”

“Bye, babes.”

The screen went dark and Hermione slipped her phone back into her pocket. She turned back to her cart and pushed it forward to the next shelf, peeking down the aisle.

The student had left.

Hermione stopped at the next shelf, absentmindedly plucking the next book from the stack and turning it over to check the call number. Except, it didn’t have one. Curious, she flipped the volume over, scanning the title.

Her face turned cold. The book fell from her hands and dropped to her feet with a loud thump.

“Now, Granger,” a voice drawled from behind her, his breath hot against her ear, “is that any way to treat a first edition of A History of Magic?”

Hermione spun in place, reaching for the can of pepper spray tucked securely in her bra. With deft fingers, she unlocked the safety and pressed down on the lever, unleashing the mist into Draco Malfoy’s smirking face.


End file.
